


the mirror's filled with you

by punkassbookjockey



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon Compliant, Divination, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8102734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkassbookjockey/pseuds/punkassbookjockey
Summary: In hindsight, it all makes sense. That's always the problem, though.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [othersideofthis (hikaru)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/gifts).



> the working title for this was 'that's so roman (it's the future I can see).' I'm really sorry. 
> 
> a mountain-sized thank you to dani, cori, and emily, who beta-ed this thoroughly, did some above-and-beyond-the-call handholding, and told me I could do this when I genuinely didn't think it was gonna happen. 
> 
> to othersideofthis: you wrote the kindest, most encouraging, most interesting dear author request I've ever received. there were so many ideas and themes you called out that I wanted to write, but two of the specific requests you wrote for PK/Roman ("maybe they're both wizards" and "maybe one of them time-travels to stop the trade") stuck with me. I ended up going in a somewhat different direction, but I kept the time and magic themes. I just hope it lives up to your amazing letter you wrote! 
> 
> my tumblr is [here](https://klmjonghyun.tumblr.com).

Roman’s phone vibrates for what must be the twentieth time as his mother details her plans for the morning. It’s not terribly late in Bern, but late enough, on a weeknight, that Roman has a feeling the texts are coming from across the pond. His agent would have called him if he got dealt; it’s probably just a cute baby video from one of the guys, which, as much as Roman wants to see, isn’t worth hanging up on his mom for. “Another wine tasting?” he asks. “Where?” 

“Epernay,” she says. “Then we’re going to drive to--oh, here’s the dessert. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure, _tschüssli_ ,” Roman says, leaning back into his sofa. On the screen, the clock stares back at him, followed by a string of texts. 

The latest one’s from Jonesy, so he opens it first. _u see the trade?_

Roman sighs. He wasn’t missing anything, then. _Hall? That’s old news, grandpa._

He’s barely had time to put the phone down when it buzzes again. This time, Jonesy’s sent him a screenshot of the Preds twitter feed, another text underneath it. _looks like u really are the last man standing_ , he wrote. 

Roman stares down at the screen, English words forming sentences he understands only technically, and feels like a puzzle being pieced together and dismantled at the same time. 

\--

In hindsight, it all makes sense. That’s always the problem, though. 

\-- 

For his eleventh birthday, Mer got Roman an inflatable pool. It fit one person, two people if they squeezed, but that didn’t matter at the time. It was big enough for Roman to spend lazy summer afternoons making waves, seeing how far he can get from the pool before the water stops listening to him, and that was the whole point. Learning to dunk Yannick underwater from anywhere in the house was just a lucky side effect. 

A month later, Roman’s trying a different experiment, seeing if he can direct the water pouring out of a cup so that it falls at an angle from his bedroom window, eventually dropping into the pool outside. If he can pull it off, he’d be unstoppable - well, Mer would make him stop, eventually, but Yannick could never top it. 

Roman giggles to himself as he walks into the kitchen, excited just thinking of Yannick’s indignant, wet face. Past the island, he can see Per watching Wimbledon, the noise trailing into the kitchen. Roman grabs the pitcher off the tabletop to fill his cup and watches Pete Sampras drop match point. 

It looks like the broadcast from the living room is showing through the plastic. He sees Sampras grab his bags and walk off Centre Court, the box score projected underneath him. 7-6, 5-7, 6-4, 6-7, 7-5. How? The winner’s Swiss, according to the graphic, and that grabs Roman’s attention. He picks up the cup and wanders into the living room, hoping to hear the post-match interview, and--

Roger Federer and Sampras are at 6-all, headed into the first-set tiebreak. Per’s leaning into the armchair, watching lazily. “You’re watching the replay?” Roman asks. 

Per looks at him, then back at the TV, and chuckles. “When’s the last time we got your eyes checked?” There’s a fuzzy “LIVE” icon printed in the corner of the screen. When Roman looks down at the cup, he just sees the blue of their carpet reflected in the water. 

“Never mind,” he says. “Sampras’s going to lose, though.” On the screen, Federer takes the breaker. 

Per raises an eyebrow. “It’s just one set. We’ll see.” Roman nods noncommittally and heads back upstairs. 

By dinnertime, he’s pulled off his new trick once, unintentionally watered their flower boxes multiple times, and Roger Federer, after five sets, is a Wimbledon quarterfinalist. 

“Is he going to the semis?” Roman asks his cup. Nothing happens, not even after he swirls the water around a little, and Yannick snorts into his potatoes. He gets some on his nose, though, so Roman counts it as a win. 

After dessert, he stares down the length of the cup. So, water talks. Sometimes. Roman shrugs and finishes off the drink in one gulp. 

\--

“What the fuck,” Latts says, hands on his hips and toilet water dripping off his face. Elly’s laughing so hard next to Roman he can’t keep his head off the tabletop. “This is, like, a classic rookie prank. I’m not gonna believe you have water powers just because of your charming accent or whatever.” 

Roman shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, and pulls and pushes the water in his glass until it hits Latts right in the nose. Elly lifts his face just in time to see it, kicking off another giggle fit, and this time, Roman lets himself join in. 

Latts stomps into the kitchen to get a hand towel. He dries off his face in one gruff motion and then points the towel at the two of them like a gauntlet. “You fuckers planned this, didn’t you.” 

“Hey now,” Elly says, putting his hands up, “the wizardry was all Jos.” 

“Yeah, I got that, but you gave him the assist.” Latts tosses the towel at Elly, which Elly dodges without having to try all that hard. “I don’t know how I fell for that.” 

Roman bats his eyes. “My charming accent?” 

“I hate you,” Latts says, but Roman knows he doesn’t mean it; Latts spits at much older enforcers in the A with twice the venom. “Boyish good looks, disgustingly beautiful hair, waterbending--what’s next, Jos, can you fly?” 

“No, not that lucky,” Roman answers. “But I see the future sometimes.” 

“I just had to ask,” Latts says, sighing. “That’s it. You’re telling both our fortunes, right now.” he sits in the empty chair at the table and rests his chin on his hands, expectant. 

“It’s not--” Roman drums his fingers on the table, trying to come up with the right words. “I can’t make it happen.” 

For a moment, Latts doesn’t move, and Roman thinks he’s about to go off again. Instead, Latts starts to lean back in his chair, a smug smile slowly taking over his face. “So you do suck at something!” he crows, pumping his fist. “You’re forgiven, Elly.” 

“Hey, I’m completely innocent--” 

“Just accept it, man.” Latts looks back at Roman, still grinning like some deranged cartoon villain. “Roman Josi, shitty fortune teller. Best thing I’ve heard all year.” 

Roman smiles sunnily back. “It’s a hard life,” he says, and settles in for Latts’s terrible chirps. 

(Roman scalds him in the locker room showers after their next game. Latts doesn’t see it coming.) 

\--

The first vision he had stateside was during a game. It was their last homestand of 2012, against Minnesota, and Roman spent his time between shifts watching Shea and Sutes work together. During a shift in the third, Sutes was winding up for a slapshot from the blue line, and as he made contact, Roman saw Sutes’ reflection in the ice wearing Wild green. In the real game, Backstrom swatted away Sutes’s shot; the reflection scored before flickering out of existence. Roman started prepping for the next line change and didn’t think about the vision again until summertime. 

His stomach dropped when he heard Sutes left the Preds, and again when Shea almost followed him out. He didn’t think he’d seen anything significant in April, but for a moment that summer, Roman wondered, in spite of himself, if he should have said something anyway. 

\--

Nashville still feels like every American stereotype Roman grew up believing, but it’s home now, too. Somehow that first season bouncing from Milwaukee and back with Elly, re-learning highways and dinner spots each time, seems like it took place in a whole other city. Roman feels right in his own skin here, finally, in a way he hadn’t before the lockout. He’s settled. 

Last season was awful for just about everyone, Roman included, but he at least got to reset at Worlds. Missing the playoffs still stings, but he feels great about his game, too, and it’s not going unnoticed. Roman can tell from the way Trotz and the rest of the staff watches him that they saw him at Worlds, that they expect more now. 

Of all the people spending more time watching him, though, Roman didn’t think Shea would be one of them. They’ve always been friendly, but Roman still feels the weight of Sutes’s absence when he’s paired with Shea, still feels like a rookie skating next to him. Shea invites Roman and one of the new kids out to lunch on the first day of camp, and keeps the meal invites coming until Roman’s lost count. 

By American Thanksgiving, Roman and Jonesy have a standing invitation to Shea’s kitchen during homestands, and Roman’s had visions of Shea in two different team sweaters. The visions were both happy--as happy as a split-second glimpse can be, anyway--but distant, like Roman was watching TV or scrolling through Instagram. The more Roman plays and eats alongside Shea, the more he _learns_ from and about him, the more those glimpses seem sinister. 

Shea signed a blockbuster before the lockout, he got the C; he’s not going anywhere, willingly or otherwise. Roman knows that, but it isn’t as comforting as it probably should be. 

Shea’s made pasta with vegetables tonight. “Congrats on Sochi, by the way,” he says, as soon as they sit down. “I can’t remember if I told you or not.” 

Roman blushes. It’s not really a surprise, given how Worlds turned out, but it still feels good to know he’s going. “You have, but I’m not sick of hearing it.” 

“Jeez, Jos, don’t let it get to your head,” Jonesy mumbles through a mouthful of noodles. “It’s big enough already.” 

“You keep saying that, maybe I won’t get you a souvenir,” Roman says, grinning. 

Shea shrugs. “Just get him an Olympics condom.”

“Oh my god, Webs, not with Mom around,” Jonesy whines, his voice high enough that the dogs perk up from their lounging spot in the living room. Shea’s the champion of keeping a straight face, but Roman starts laughing the second they lie at Jonesy’s feet. “I just want, like, a selfie with your gold medal when you get back.” 

“Don’t jinx it,” Shea says. 

“I’m not,” Jonesy replies. “Jos said he saw--” Roman tries swallowing the same moment he takes a breath to cut off Seth and ends up in a coughing fit, glass still in his hand. It works, at least. 

“Saw what?” Shea looks between the two of them. Roman’s never kept the magic secret, but it’s never come up with Shea, either. Jonesy’s looking at Roman now, expectant, and telling the truth seems better than letting Shea know he’s hiding something. 

“It was just a vision,” he says. “Really short. You gave me your sweater and the gold medal.” Shea doesn’t say anything, his eyes on Roman, and he doesn’t know what to do besides keep going. “You already know Jonesy breathes fire, right? So this is nothing. I saw Sutes leaving before, too, but I didn’t know what it was. And I saw you wearing an A for--”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine, no judgement here,” Shea says, his face suddenly very sober. “Just don’t tell me if it happens again, okay?” 

Roman frowns. “You don’t want to know?” he asks. “It’s never much, but what if I see you get--” 

“It’s okay,” he answers, quickly. “Really. I’ve got enough going on without the future looming over my head.” Shea stands up, carrying his empty plate, and finally grins at Roman. “Thanks for telling me I’m winning our bet, though.” 

Jonesy cackles. 

\--

The game’s been over for an hour. They won, but there’s no energy in the locker room; Roman’s scrum is through, but he hasn’t gotten up. It’s Shea’s turn, now that he’s found some crutches, and Roman can’t look at him without wanting to bang his own head into the wall. 

Jonesy walks over in his suit, fresh from his shower. Oh, right, they carpooled. “You wrapped up?” he asks. 

Roman leans against his locker. “I saw the injury,” he says, quiet enough that the scrum won’t pick it up. 

“You looked like shit when it happened, I could tell.” Jonesy holds out a hand to pull Roman up. “We’ll get the last three for him, yeah?” 

Roman nods. “Yeah.” 

\--

The apartment’s too quiet without Taylor, which is why Roman ends up inviting teammates over at least three times a week. 

“I can’t believe you still have this,” Jonesy says, rubbing the top of Sheepy’s head. He talks a lot of shit, but Roman’s pretty sure Sheepy’s part of everyone’s family now. 

“I got him in the divorce,” Roman says, dismissively. Jonesy holds up his glass, and Roman guides water into it until it’s full again. “I told Taylor if he took Sheepy with him, the movers would lose him.” 

Jonesy accepts it at first, nodding, but Roman can’t stop the smirk from spreading across his face. “Oh my god, Jos, you’re so full of shit.” Seth shakes his head. “Have you been fucking with us this whole time?” 

“Of course not,” Roman says, placing a hand over his heart. “Sheepy was just too important to let go.” 

Jonesy laughs. “You’re an asshole,” he says as he pulls a package out of his duffel. “There’s your replacement shirt, by the way, for the one I sneezed to a crisp.” 

It only took a few days of training camp for Jonesy to accidentally light Roman on fire. He can usually pull water over to put it out before clothes get ruined, but it’s harder in bars to make sure he grabs from the right glasses. It’s something he’s accepted as routine, like getting stuck in traffic on roadies or watching Nealer strike out three times in a night. Jonesy has more in common with a puppy than a dragon, anyway, which makes him almost impossible to stay mad at. “Thanks, _Schnüggel_ ,” he says, and laughs when Jonesy immediately gags. 

“Quit being gross and get over here.” Jonesy pats the couch before getting up to turn on Roman’s Xbox. He spent their entire lunch talking about how thoroughly he’d beat Roman at NHL 16, which Roman’s pretty sure means he’s about to kick Jonesy’s ass. 

Roman pauses halfway through the second period to refill his glass, pulling water from the pitcher he left out in the kitchen. He’s nearly flawless at this now, after years of practice, but his control slips for a split second when a vision materializes just as he’s guiding the water into his glass. There isn’t much of a mess, but a few drops fell on Jonesy’s pants. “Not cool, man, you just cut my lead in half.” 

“It’s not that,” Roman says, squinting at his cup. “I think I saw something.” 

Jonesy leans forward. “Anything cool? We winning the Cup this year?” 

Roman shrugs. “Nothing exciting. You were being a gossip, texting me about some trade. I started replying and it cut out.” 

“Seriously?” Roman nods. “You think it’s like dreams, where the more you think about stuff, the more you see visions about it?” 

“No idea.” 

“You should experiment,” Jonesy says. “Think about my lovelife.” 

Roman strokes his chin. “So, think about nothing?” 

“That’s low, Jos.” Jonesy wrestles Roman’s hands off his controller and resumes the game before tossing the controller on the other side of the rug. “It’s on, now.” Roman dives for it and reaches it to pause the game again, but not before TV-Jonesy goes five-hole on TV-Price and wins. 

He beats Jonesy in the shootout, 5-4, and Roman’s not mature enough to turn down a chance to dunk two cups worth of water over his head. 

\-- 

Jonesy texts him when he lands in Columbus. _hey remember that vision u had when i was over where i was texting u?_

Roman does, but only vaguely. He’s been trying to remember more, to no avail. _Yeah why_

 _u were there when i found out this morning_ , jonesy replies. _i didn’t text you about it. so don’t beat urself up like when webs went down._

Roman exhales. That’s good, at least. _Miss you already schätzli_ , he writes. Jonesy snaps him a tired selfie from his taxi, and doesn’t even complain about the nickname. 

\--

 _Your text just now, that’s what I saw in October_ , Roman sends Jonesy, as soon as he’s skimmed a hastily written article about the trade. It’s real. Shea’s gone. _Remember that?_

_shit_ , Jonesy replies. Yeah. Roman doesn’t have anything else to add, but he picks up when Shea calls and doesn’t mention the visions. 

He doesn’t remember meeting PK Subban before the All-Star Game, even though it probably happened at some point. What he does remember is getting through the red carpet and into Bridgestone, a few cameras still following him, and the sound of someone in dress shoes rushing to catch up. 

PK stopped as soon as they were side-by-side, and the photographers perked up. “Hey, Roman,” he said, a huge smile on his face, “You got a second for a picture?” 

Roman nodded, flashing another smile at the cameras. He shivered as PK gently slid an arm around his waist, bringing him just a little bit closer. The photographers got a handful of pictures before moving on, and PK took another with his phone before letting Roman go. 

“Thanks, man,” he said, tucking his phone back into his front pocket, “I told myself I couldn’t leave tonight without a selfie with the second best-dressed guy here.” 

Roman laughed and hoped PK didn’t notice him blushing. “That means something, coming from you,” he said. “I could never pull off your Winter Classic suit.” 

“Mm, I think you could.” It didn’t seem possible, but PK’s smile grew wider, brighter. “Let me know if you’re ever in town, I can hook you up with my tailor. Us men of taste have to stick together, right?” He winked before disappearing down the hall, and Roman took a moment to himself before heading back to the festivities. 

Their paths crossed a few more times that weekend, PK still cheerful as he signed next to Roman, let him borrow a sharpie, took shots with him and some of the younger guys. Roman wondered how he kept it up, the way the Habs’ season was going, but he liked him, almost instinctively. 

By the time Roman gets off the phone with Shea, he’s got a handful of texts from a number he doesn’t recognize. _Hey, it’s PK. got your # from JT, just wanted to say hi_ , he says. _I’m in Europe actually, but I don’t think I can make it to Bern before my trip’s over. Can I call you tomorrow?_

Roman stares at the text for a few seconds. He didn’t know PK was in the area, and his shock and confusion, already winding down, quickly turn to sympathy. He’s just as blindsided as the rest of them. _Of course, welcome to the team_ , Roman writes. _Sorry you’re missing out on the continent’s best chocolate ;)_

There’s a reply from PK after Roman finishes talking to Poile. _Talk to you soon_ , it says. It feels off, but Roman can’t put his finger on why. 

\-- 

PK calls him a few hours after Roman gets lunch. “This still a good time?” he says. He’s restless and tired all at once; Roman can hear it in his voice. 

“Yeah, perfect, just watching Wimbledon. What’s up?” he asks. It occurs to Roman, as soon as he says it, that it might be a stupid question. PK doesn’t chirp him for it, though.

“I, uh, just wanted to catch up, after everything that happened yesterday.” PK sighs, and Roman can almost imagine him rubbing his temple. “I know I’ve got huge shoes to fill, figuratively and literally,” Roman’s lips quirk at that; he can’t resist a good chirp about Shea, even now. “But I want to get a fresh start, so hopefully you don’t mind giving me that.”

It’s obviously something he meditated on before calling, but it doesn’t feel like a line, either. Roman wonders if _he_ should have prepared more for this. “We’re all gonna miss Webs,” he starts, sheepishly, “but as long as you want to win, I think you’ll fit in just fine. Nealer can’t make eggs, and we haven’t kicked him out yet.” 

PK laughs. “Does he smile after losses, though?” 

“Sometimes on roadies, his dogsitter sends pictures of them sleeping on each other,” Roman says. “You don’t smile at them, he thinks you’re a monster. It doesn’t matter who won, what time it is, nothing.” 

“Good to know,” PK says, and Roman, finally, can hear the grin in his voice. 

\--

Roman’s washing his face when he sees PK’s in the water slowly draining out of his sink. He’s in full gear, clearly happy, shouting something Roman can’t make out. Roman gets a glimpse of a scoreboard in the background, the Preds leading Chicago 5-0, before the last few drops disappear. If the water had ever shown any interest in his well-being before, he’d think it was trying to reassure him. 

He still sleeps better than he has in weeks. 

\-- 

Team Europe loses the final, but it still feels good, getting that far. Roman catches a redeye back to Nashville alone and heads right to training camp. The staff offered him maintenance days, but Roman wants to build up on his positive energy, bring it to the rest of the team. 

He’s late, but not by much; most of the team is still doing lazy circles around the rink or warming up their shots when he’s finally dressed. Elly’s the first one to spot him, whistling as soon as he does. Someone else starts whooping, and the whole warmup comes to a grinding halt. Roman tries to hide behind Peks, but Elly reaches around him to knock his helmet off and ruffle his hair. “Welcome back, you beautiful bastard,” he says. “Ready to play with the little people again?” 

“Born ready,” he answers, and adds, smirking, “Just wish I’d gotten to take Canada out.” Elly gives him a little shove for that, gasping like he’s on a soap, and Roman ends up sliding into PK’s chest. He jumps at first, but then settles an arm around Roman’s shoulder, as casual as anything. 

Roman shouldn’t be thinking it, but PK’s thick, easy to lie against the way he likes. He probably gives amazing celly hugs. 

“I, for one, was rooting for you,” he says, his voice as loud as ever but his breath warm against Roman’s cheek. 

Elly folds his arms. “Subby’s full of shit, Jos, don’t listen to him.”

“I was!” PK says, affronted. “Just not when you guys played Canada.” 

“And there it is.” 

Roman laughs. “I guess I can forgive you,” he says. A whistle blows on the other side of the rink, and PK lets go of him, drifting slowly down the ice. 

They’re paired together so quickly it almost feels like an afterthought. The first few scrimmages are surreal; Roman keeps stealing glances around the ice, familiar with the space but not how he fits into it, now. He loses a pass, then another. Mike picks his pocket, positively gleeful as Roman starts chasing him to the other end. He’s back in position once Mike decides to pass, but the puck, thankfully, hits PK’s tape instead of Nealer’s. Roman turns on his heel to reach the pass PK sends back, leaves it for Joey, and watches him airmail it into the net, top shelf. He exhales sharply as Joey pulls them into a muted hug, like he’s coming to the surface. 

They’re still not magical after that, he and PK, but Roman feels surer of himself, of _them_ , with each play. Exhilaration thrums through his veins each time they click, and even as they break for lunch he wants to chase the feeling. 

Roman’s forgotten how addictive chemistry can be when it’s new, growing. He nudges PK to the side as they’re ushered to lunch. “You wanna get dinner later?” 

PK raises his eyebrows, smiling like he knows exactly what Roman’s doing. “Yeah, let’s do it. You pick the place, surprise me.” 

Roman opens his mouth to ask about the time just as Elly strides into PK’s personal space, aghast about something. “Okay, maybe I’m missing something here, but are you letting Jos take you out?” he asks. “You have no idea what kind of weird shit they eat in Switzerland, man, he can’t be trusted.” 

Roman will maintain on his deathbed that Maggi is no weirder than Buffalo sauce or fried ice cream, but it’s a losing battle on foreign soil. “Don’t listen to him, Elly has no taste,” he says, with a heavy sigh. “He can’t appreciate...how do you say it?” 

PK grins. “The finer things in life?” 

“Yeah, that.” 

“I’ll show _you_ the finer things in life,” Elly says, scoffing, which is how, several hours later, the three of them end up squeezed into a booth at a barbecue joint. 

“Mac and cheese,” Roman drawls. “How sophisticated.” 

“Shove it, it’s truffle mac.” Roman’s not sure how that changes things, but he lets it slide. “I told you, we’re at a sophisticated establishment.” 

Roman hums noncommittally, looks over the menu. He could give Elly shit for as many years as he’s known him, but he looks at PK, who looks amused by them in a distant way, and remembers being twenty-one and shoved between strangers at team dinner. Maybe it’s different, when you’re older, but Roman didn’t invite PK out so he could third-wheel him. He knows what that’s like, even if it’s been a while. 

The waiter’s barely left with their dinner orders before Elly shoots Roman a tell-tale smirk. “Hey, Subby,” he says, softly, as he turns to him, “You wanna see something cool?” 

“Of course,” PK answers, grinning easily, and Elly’s so excited Roman can feel it, like he’s a balloon begging to float up into the atmosphere. It’s funny, how Elly’s always enjoyed this part more. 

“Watch your glass,” he says, giddy. Roman leans back, concentrating, and within a few seconds, the water in PK’s glass shoots straight up, peaking at his eye level, and falls back in without a splash. It doesn’t look like much, probably, but it’s far more involved than hitting someone in the face. 

Elly’s pouting when he’s done. “Come on, Jos, you’re supposed to splash him.” 

“In public?” Roman shakes his head. “That’s how people start rumors.” 

PK hasn’t said anything, but he’s looking at Roman now, both eyebrows raised. “You did that?” 

Roman nods sheepishly. “Yeah. Sort of. What I really do is--” 

“Details, schmetails, Jos,” Elly says. “You’re a water wizard, flaunt that shit.” 

“No way, man.” PK picks up his glass and swirls the water inside a few times, like he’s waiting for something else to happen. It’s charming, and, if Roman’s being perfectly honest, a little flattering. “I’ve heard about this kind of stuff, but I’ve never actually seen it outside of a dubious YouTube video, you know? That’s amazing.” He puts the glass down and looks up at Roman. “How does it work?” 

“Ehm, I just...” Roman’s never found a way to explain it that didn’t make him sound completely ludicrous, let alone doing that in English. “Push it--the water, I mean. Like a conversation, but no talking. When I was a kid, it didn’t always listen, but that’s not a problem now.” He shrugs. “It talks back, though, from time to time.” 

“So you just get splashed for no reason?” PK asks, eyes twinkling.

Roman chuckles. “Oh, no, not like that,” he says. “It sends little pieces of the future, sometimes, instead of my reflection.” He realizes how ridiculous it sounds once he closes his mouth, but PK doesn’t seem to mind, leaning in. 

“You see anything about the season?” he asks, conspiratorially. 

“Yeah, I did,” Roman draws out each word, suddenly nervous. “We were winning.” 

“For real? That’s what I like to hear.” PK reaches for his other drink, some sort of whiskey cocktail that Roman’s already forgotten the name of. “You wanna toast to that?” 

“Fuckin’ right,” Elly says, so they do. 

PK looks at Roman with some mix of awe and amusement on his face for the rest of the night, and Roman lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

\-- 

It’s not lost on Roman that their season opens with a home-and-home against the Hawks. He doesn’t know when his vision back in Bern was supposed to happen--even _where_ it’s supposed to happen--but he knows it’s coming, and that’s enough. If it doesn’t happen in the opener, it’ll be the next game, or the next, or the next. He can’t remember the last time a vision was completely, blatantly happy; it might have been the first one, of Roger’s upset. Roman’s going to savor this. 

The home opener is a grind the Preds end up losing in the extra period, curbing their morale almost completely as they board the redeye to Chicago. Roman’s bitter about the result, too, but his frustration melts away as he watches the tape. The pieces are there, they just need more time. The preseason was short. The 5-0 game’s still coming. He can’t stay mad forever. 

Their Saturday game isn’t Chicago’s home opener, but the atmosphere’s still sizzling. It always is, here. He and PK are in the starting five, standing in the middle of the ice for the anthem as 19,000 people scream at them, and Roman can’t stand still. PK’s constantly shifting his balance too, when Roman looks over, and his lips quirk. He’s had so many bad memories here; he’s ready to create something good. 

The game’s not good, though. It’s fucking amazing. Filip scores in the third minute on an odd-man rush, and the energy starts draining out of the stands when he follows it up on a power play a few minutes later. He finishes the hat trick in the second period, puts them up 3-0, and Roman knows it’s coming, now, he doesn’t need to rush. He sets PK up for a slapshot late in the third period after Joey makes it 4-0, heart pounding in anticipation, and feels perfectly boneless when the puck flies past Crawford’s outstretched glove. 

He finds PK across the ice, sandwiched between Nealer and Joey already. “Great fucking pass,” he shouts, whooping in his face, and the scoreboard is familiar when Roman looks up, but PK’s hand on his neck, pulling him in, is entirely new. 

They’ve got a couple days off, so the team’s staying the night and flying home in the morning. The old guard goes to bed, but Roman ends up downtown with a bunch of the guys, too wired to call it a night. Someone, he’s not sure who, finds a karaoke bar on Yelp, and they fit themselves into a corner, scribbling song requests hastily on different scraps of paper. 

“You should sing ‘99 Red Balloons,’” Elly shouts at him from across the table. 

Roman is not going to sing “99 Red Balloons.” “That’s a German thing, not a Swiss thing,” he says, for probably the thousandth time in his North American career. He’d probably remember the lyrics with a few shots in him, but Elly doesn’t need to know that. 

“Does someone wanna do Beyoncé?” PK yells, and at least three people scramble forward. It’s Saturday night and Peks already delivered a handful of other requests from their table, so it’s a long wait, but finally PK leads them up to the makeshift stage with the opening to “Crazy In Love” behind them. 

Objectively, it’s a mess. They’re attempting to dance, but it’s mostly just uncoordinated ass-shaking; PK’s the only one with any real rhythm when he isn’t sober. They waver off-key every other line or so, which is only amplified by the fact that they’re shouting more than they’re singing. Roman’s four shots in, though, so it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. He looks over to make sure someone’s recording it before he leans back in his shitty dive bar chair to watch. 

Filip’s the one who tries to do the rap solo, with PK warbling Bey’s runs in the background as he grinds into his side. There’s a chance they all know this song too well, Roman included. The whole group does the bridge, but Roman keeps his eyes on PK. He looks back, holding his gaze as they shout “I’m foolish, I don’t do this” in more or less unison, and Roman feels something warm and sharp fountain in his chest. 

PK runs his thumb across his lip, down his neck to the little bit of collarbone visible below his button-up, and the feeling spreads across Roman’s body, perfect and foreboding all at once. 

He tears his gaze away and unlocks his phone under the table. _on a scale of 1 to 10 how stupid would it be to kiss a teammate_ , he texts Jonesy. 

It takes less than a minute for him to reply. _10, u have no game_ , he says. _don’t do anything webs wouldn’t do. call me tomorrow_

\-- 

Roman refuses to think of himself as a shitty fortune teller, but, in light of recent events, he admits he isn’t a particularly useful one. 

\--

Jonesy picks up on the second ring. “Please tell me it isn’t Nealer,” he says. 

Roman wrinkles his nose. “I have taste.” 

“Most of the time,” Jonesy says, cheerfully. “I’m kidding, Jos. I think I have a better guess than that.” 

Roman decides to rip off the bandaid. “It’s PK.” 

“Oh.” Jonesy is way too awake for a Sunday morning, but it’s highly possible he isn’t hungover. “You’re moving pretty fast there, huh?” 

“I guess so,” Roman says. He’s counted-- it’s been three weeks since he left the World Cup for training camp, three months since the trade. If he counts when they really met, it’s even longer, but he probably shouldn’t. “It doesn’t feel fast when you’re with him.” It sounds sappy as hell, but PK has a way of making him feel bigger when they’re together, like he’s the center of something great. Roman wasn’t unhappy before the trade, far from it, but he’s never felt this strongly, either. 

“That’s cute,” Jonesy tells him, and it doesn’t feel like a chirp. “Look, Jos, if you want someone to tell you no, I’m not gonna be much help.” He sighs. “You’re the most adaptable person I know, so if anyone’s going to make it work, it’s you.” 

Roman pouts. “You said I have no game.” 

“You don’t,” he says, “but you’ve never needed it before, right?” Roman’s never tried too hard at dating, or even picking up, but Jonesy makes a fair point. “Have you seen anything about him?” 

“Yeah.” He tells Jonesy about the game vision, as short as it was. “There was something else, too, but I don’t know for sure.” 

A week or so after Roman got to camp, they’d gotten everyone to film the getting-to-know-you videos for the jumbotrons. The topic for the first was Nashville trivia, and the directors tried, for the most part, to pair the new guys with vets. Roman, of course, got PK, just to keep things consistent off the ice. 

One of the interns handed him a pack of cards and a bottle of water, and he shuffled them absentmindedly until the cameras started rolling. “First question,” he said, flipping a card over, “When did Tootsie’s open?” 

“Come on, Jos, that’s child’s play. 1960.” Behind the set, an intern played a bell tone. PK made eye contact with the camera and _winked_ , and Roman giggled as quietly as he could manage behind the cards. “Hey, why are you laughing? I’m doing my best.” 

“No, I’m not--you’re like.” Roman gestured uselessly at the camera. “What’s the English word for a party cannon, Yanni?” 

Yannick cracked up behind the set, the asshole. “He means you’ve got charisma, Subby,” he said. “Roman’s just an idiot.” PK preened, and Roman flipped over another card. 

“Oh, this is good. When’s my birthday?” 

PK sucked in a breath. “Oh, man, I’m just gonna spitball this. July?” 

“Close.” 

“June?” Roman nodded. “It wasn’t the 29th, right?” 

Roman laughed nervously. “Way off.” 

“Good, good. If that’s not it, then...what about the first?” The bell went off again, and PK did a little fist bump in the air. “Sorry I missed it, man. I’ll get you two presents next year.” 

“Is that a promise?” Roman asked.

“Of course,” PK said, indignant. A crew member rushed onto the set to tell them they were pausing to adjust the lighting, and Roman used the break to open his water bottle. He took a long drink before lowering it from his lips, and just as he set it back on the table a picture started to form inside it. It was dim, like the few nighttime visions Roman had seen before, but he could make out his legs between someone’s thighs, their clothes still on but zippers and buttons undone, an obvious tent in their pants. It seemed crisp, slow, like someone was taking their time with him, relishing it. The vision moved upward, like Roman was leaning back to take it all in, but it dissolved just before the person’s face came into view. 

It’s even more tantalizing in retrospect. 

“Okay, TMI,” Jonesy whines. Roman wonders how red his face is and regrets not Facetiming him. “But there’s no way that’s a coincidence. I’ll streak through Nationwide if it is.” 

“No, you won’t.”

“I’ll do _something_ ,” Jonesy says, “So make your move.” 

\--

Roman does exactly nothing for two weeks, but at least they’re winning more than they’re losing. They make it to the beach before their LA-Anaheim back-to-back, and he stretches out on a towel, redirecting the waves so they crash into the guys instead of the shore. 

PK lies next to him after a while. He’s fresh out of the water, droplets still falling down his chest, and Roman tries and fails not to track the motion. “You’re fucking with them, aren’t you?” PK says, gesturing towards the ocean, and Roman doesn’t answer, just smiles sunnily at him. “Get Fisher for me, c’mon, he did us dirty this morning.” 

The best part of the beach, as far as pranks go, is that there’s no shortage of seawater to toss around--Roman can afford to take his time or miss (and he does, Elly’s on to him) a few times before he connects. He waits a few moments for Mike to stand up in the sandbar, lets go of the other waves, and creates a huge one at Mike’s back before letting it crash down on him as quickly as it formed. “What the fuck, Jos,” he hears, muffled by the spray and the rest of the crowd noise, but PK’s cackling uproariously next to him, his hand tightening around Roman’s bicep, so it’s worth it. 

They throttle the Kings and do alright against the Ducks, but the San Jose game’s a bust, the worst possible prep for a cross-country flight. Roman sleeps for most of it, waking up for the landing with PK next to him, scribbling something on a napkin. “Hey, you up for brunch tomorrow?” he whispers. “I got a rec from a friend up North, it’s supposed to be life-changing.” 

Roman has learned, very quickly, to trust PK’s taste in food. “As long as it’s not early,” he says, and PK laughs, says he’ll pick him up at one. 

The restaurant _is_ great, but Roman doesn’t focus on it much. There’s a dozen little moments, in the car and at their tiny, undoubtedly antique table, where he sees an opening, where he _should_ say something, but he lets it pass each time. He asks PK about his chef friend, about the condo he just bought, and tells him about the novel he just finished, the shows he can’t decide whether or not to watch. Every few minutes, he looks at his water glass, like it might give him some kind of hint. 

It’s not that Roman lies, or even hides the truth. He’s just never given his feelings a chance to be relevant, either. 

PK offers to drop Roman off at his place, but he’s uncharacteristically quiet for most of the ride. Roman invites him in, like it’ll somehow give him the guts to talk, and PK accepts, settles himself on the couch with their beers as Roman finds the Cowboys game on TV. “So, I’ve been wondering about this for weeks now,” he says, and Roman braces himself, heart dropping to his stomach, “but what’s with the sheep?” 

He laughs, startled. “Oh, that’s just Sheepy,” he says. “Taylor and I bought him, a long time ago. I put a wreath around him for Christmas.” 

PK reaches out to pat Sheepy’s head, a little hesitantly. “Nothing for Halloween?” 

“Nah, I meant to buy a witch hat, but I forgot.” 

“For shame,” PK says, but he’s obviously joking. Roman sits next to him, leaving a little distance so they don’t touch, and tries to focus on the game. 

PK doesn’t let him, though. “Hey, I meant to ask you something, earlier,” he says as soon as the commercial break starts. “Remember how you told me you saw the future?” 

Roman exhales. This is easy. “I don’t know if we win the Cup, I’m sorry.” 

“No, not that,” PK says. “I mean, you _do_ know, because we’re gonna win it, but that’s not what I meant.” He picks some lint off his jeans. “Did you see the trade coming?” 

“Ehm.” Roman freezes. It figures, of course, that he didn’t expect _this_ question. He thinks about lying first, how easy it would be, but PK’s looking at him, completely trusting, and he can’t do that again. “Sort of,” he says. “I saw parts of it, like Shea in his new jersey, but I didn’t know what it meant, when I saw them. I didn’t know until it happened.” 

PK blows out a long breath. “Would you have tried to stop it, if you’d known what it meant?” 

Fuck. “It wouldn’t have mattered,” Roman says, his pulse racing, “Shea didn’t want to know if I saw things about him. I couldn’t do something without giving it away.” 

“Wow.” PK’s mouth curves, unhappy in a way Roman hasn’t seen it before, this close. “What if you could, though?” 

“What?” 

PK looks up at him. “What if you could have done something about the trade, without anyone knowing?” 

Roman’s known the answer to that long before PK ever asked and has no desire to own up to it. PK looks like he’s bracing himself for disappointment, though, and Roman wants that less, even if it comes with a price. “I think I would have tried to stop it,” he says, quietly, “But it would’ve been a mistake.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Roman swallows. “Well, I wouldn’t have gotten to play with you. I wouldn’t even know what it’s like.”

A smile breaks out across PK’s face, finally, and it seems like something bigger. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” PK’s starting to blush now, and Roman feels brave, suddenly, leaning in. “And I wouldn’t have gotten to do this, either.” 

PK reads him perfectly, meets him halfway. It’s a shitty first kiss in that neither of them can stop giggling, but PK’s hands find his hips, gently turning him closer as satisfaction pools in Roman’s stomach. He runs his hands up PK’s back until he reaches his neck, rubbing circles there with his thumbs, and smiles when PK sighs into his mouth. 

“Did you know about this?” PK asks, gesturing between them. Roman immediately feels the loss of his touch, and PK picks up the hint wordlessly, gets his fingers under the hem of Roman’s shirt. 

“No,” he says. “Honest. I wish I did.” 

PK kisses the corner of his mouth. “That makes two of us,” he says, grinning, and Roman lets him push both of them back until they’re stretched out on the couch, PK flush on top of him. “I think I know where this is going, though.” 

Their beers end up on the floor, but it’s nothing Roman can’t fix.

**Author's Note:**

> some notes on the German words and Swiss culture nods in the fic (EDITED TO ADD: I've been corrected by a very nice a03 user and Actual Swiss Person burownanchor so these should be more regionally accurate): 
> 
> _Tschüssli_ is a cutesy way of saying goodbye.  
>  _Mer_ and _Per_ are nicknames for parents (i.e. Mom, Dad).  
>  _Schnüggel_ and _Schätzli_ are obnoxiously saccharine pet names for a significant other (obviously Seth and Roman weren't together in this, but I wanted an excuse to whip out cutesy slang and tbh I think it fits Roman)  
>  Maggi is a seasoning popular in Switzerland that Roman once said he brings with him when he crosses the Atlantic.  
> The word Roman's trying to transliterate into English in the trivia scene is _Stimmungskanone_ , which figuratively means "life of the party" and literally means "mood cannon." I'm self-indulgent as hell, sorry


End file.
